


Too much of water

by tree



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too much of water

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a stocking-stuffer for Melanie-Anne in the 2007 Yuletide Challenge. The request was for mad Ophelia. The title comes from Laertes in Act IV, Scene 7.

What a pretty thing, what a pretty and so soft. This little hill will be my kingdom now that I will not be queen. And here this flower of blood come up to greet me, so warm but in the grave so cold. Sleep now, Father, I shall make your bed and watch you over. A crown of flowers about my head. Or a crown of thorns? There is that which will save us, truly, for the Kingdom of Heaven awaits. And brother, you must await the coming of my Lord, and My Lord who is no more to be mine.

See how I gather these flowers, my Lord. Are they not fair as a maiden in first blush? Then tear their pretty skirting petals til they are bare. Rip, rip their stems with hungry, pinching fingers. My teeth, my sharp white teeth, white as bones and pearls. Bones, Father. Where are your bones? Where are my claws? How shall I find you deep down hidden in that dark wormy earth? I am searching for the bright, white light of your bones. Lay me down upon your breast, Father, and I shall sleep.

Flutter, flutter, the evening fills with wings. My skin grows earthen and worn. Youth is fading like the light, so quickly! Father, I am lost. Whispers, whispers, I can hear you all! I know of what you speak. The sorrowful prince will not be appeased. Not chamomile nor lemon balm will soothe his wounded soul. His words are sharp as bee-sting, as the barbs of nettles. Nettles sting and maidens fear, hey non nony, nony, hey nony, and angels they shed not a tear. Fare you well my dove.

Scratch this itch my dove, my little raven. Oh Father, my dress is dirty and my nails are torn. Do not be angry. See this lovely silver ribbon, I will wash in it. Cold as a grave is it against my skin and see how it rises! Stars on my eyelids now, fallen from the sky. Sing songs to me Father as I lay in my cold bed. Brush your rough, tender fingers across my brow. I am sinking softly, softly into the down. How heavy it all seems.

Fair prince, come and kiss me awake!


End file.
